


blood on the marble walls

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: blood on the marble walls [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Falling In Love, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Mild femdom because Yennefer, Mind Control, Multi, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pegging, Strangers to Lovers, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, smut in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: After being ambushed during a hunt, Griffin witcher Yennefer wakes up in a cell with two other witchers— a Cat named Jaskier and a wolf named Geralt. Held captive by a mage who wants to use them to create more witchers, there seems to be no chance of escape. But as Yennefer grows closer to her cellmates, she realizes that she’ll do anything to get the three of them out of this alive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: blood on the marble walls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126595
Comments: 102
Kudos: 322
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #01





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the first week of Witcher Quick Fics. Warnings for mind control, human experimentation, and implied/referenced torture in the end notes.
> 
> Title is from "you should see my in a crown" by Billie Eilish, a song that makes me think of Yennefer every time I hear it.
> 
> Cover art is by the incredible starsinmydamneyes.

Yennefer has always liked the places that most other witchers avoid, like cities and courts. She’s never seen a point of camping in the woods and sticking to the shadows all the time. Her teachers would have said that loneliness is a witcher’s lot and Yennefer would agree, but that doesn’t mean she has to be covered in mud and ichor while she’s alone.

So when she saw a contract for a bruxa in Novigrad the week before, she didn’t hesitate before saddling up her mare and heading for the city. The contract is for five hundred crowns, a suspiciously large sum. There’s no way in hell she’ll actually get paid five hundred crowns, but even half of that would do nicely. It’s almost winter, and ever since Kaer Seren fell, winters are long and hungry. She needs the coin.

But as she lurks in the shadows on the street where she was told the bruxa has snatched three people over the last couple of weeks, she sees no signs of anything amiss. It’s late enough that most people are inside, but haven’t gone to bed yet, and the windows around her glow with candlelight. From somewhere close, she hears the tinkle of laughter and she pulls her cloak tighter around her.

It’s strange, she thinks, that this bruxa would be hunting in Gildorf, the fine part of the city with its well-lit street and ample city guard presence. Normally, when people go missing in Novigrad, it’s in the Bits. But that may be why the reward is so high, so she’s not complaining.

If the fucker ever shows up.

There’s movement behind her and Yennefer turns, already reaching for the silver sword on her back.

And then nothing.

***

Every witcher’s story begins the same way.

A mother driving away in a cart, red hair vanishing in the distance, a small voice calling out for his ma as a bucket of water hits the ground.

Four marks shoved into a large, scarred hand, a girl dragged out of a pigsty and thrown at a stranger’s feet.

A blood-splattered ballroom, a boy looking up into the slit-pupiled eyes of the assassin that just killed his whole family. “Now, what do I do with you, boy?”

Every witcher’s story ends the same way.

Teeth to the throat, claws to the belly, blade through the back, poison in a cup.

Or sometimes, it’s a shadow on a darkened street and a spell whispered too softly even for witcher hearing.

***

Yennefer wakes to _chatter._

“Now, I understand that you’re a Wolf witcher and that there are certain expectations that come with it, but really, must you embody _every_ stereotype? I’m a Cat, and you don’t see me scaling walls and stabbing people all day.”

“Too busy talking.”

“Oh, please. Imagine being locked in here alone with your thoughts.”

“You mean blessed silence?”

“Oh, _you_.”

“Quiet.”

“All I’m saying is that the menacing scowls and the all-black armor is just unnecessary. Really, you could—”

“She’s awake.”

The chatter abruptly ceases. Yennefer doesn’t open her eyes. The room is cold and smells of old blood and mildew. Her wrists are shackled to a wall and her ankles bound together.

“You’re the first Griffin witcher I’ve ever met,” the chatty voice says. “I’ve heard you’re all terribly boring and chivalrous, but you can’t be worse than Geralt here.”

Yennefer opens her eyes and finds herself faced with two witchers. One of them is broad-shouldered and white-haired with a scar over his right eye and the kind of handsome, square-jawed face that belongs on the hero of a romantic ballad. The other one is lithe and dark-haired with a baby face and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Both have been stripped of their weapons, armors, and medallions. Glancing down, Yennefer confirms that her gear is gone as well.

Gods fucking damn it.

“Who are you?” Yennefer demands of the dark-haired witcher, who she can already tell is the chatty one.

“Jaskier of the Cat School,” he says. “And Mr. Dashingly Handsome and Grumpy over here is Geralt of Rivia.”

Yennefer gives the white-haired witcher an appraising once-over. “The Butcher of Blaviken?”

A muscle in the Wolf witcher’s jaw tightens and Jaskier laughs. “Oh, don’t call him that. He doesn’t like it. I thought he was going to punch me when I said it, if not for…” He rattles the shackles around his wrists.

Yennefer looks around their cell. It’s small, windowless, and damp, like any good jail cell. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Somewhere beneath Novigrad, we think,” Jaskier says. “I’m guessing you came to town for a bruxa contract?”

Yennefer nods. She knew that reward was too high.

“Geralt’s been here for two days,” Jaskier says. “I’ve been here for about a week. I must tell you, I was losing my mind before Geralt showed up. I was going to start talking to the rats soon.”

Geralt looks unbelievably tired. Yennefer feels like the Wolf witcher could be a kindred spirit. “Who are you?” he asks. His voice is a low, pleasant rumble.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she says.

Jaskier brightens. “The—”

“Don’t say it.”

“The Lilac Witcheress?”

The troubadour who came up with that terrible name has been dead for nigh on fifty years now (and he died of natural causes, Yennefer swears.) Every time she hears it, she wants to find a necromancer to raise him from the dead and kill him again.

“Every word in that song was bullshit,” she snarls. “I’m a witcher, not a fucking witcheress. I’ve also never waited in any tower for a knight to come rescue me.”

“A shame. We could all use a knight in shining armor right now.”

Footsteps approach and all three go still. Yennefer’s hands twitch, instinctively going for the twin blades she normally keeps holstered to her wrists, but they’re not there. When the door opens, she isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but it isn’t the weaselly, all-too familiar face that sneers down at her.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Yennefer says. “This asshole?”

“It’s good to see you too, witcheress.” Stregobor looks as punchable as ever in his wise wizard getup.

“You two know each other?” Jaskier asks. “Well, now I feel left out. Am I the only witcher on the Continent you don’t have a history with, Stregobor?”

Yennefer doesn’t take her eyes off Stregobor. “Ten years ago, I was hired to help a young princess who had been born under the Black Sun escape before this fucker could dissect her.”

“You still have no idea what you’ve done, letting that monster loose on the populace.”

That monster lives a quiet life in Skellige now with her lover and children, but Yennefer won’t allow herself to be baited into revealing that. “I know exactly what I did. I made three hundred crowns. Where’s all that fame and fortune you thought you were going to get for blowing the Black Sun prophecy wide open?”

Stregobor’s face purples. “We were able to avert catastrophe, so the world will never know—”

“That you’re a creepy old man who gets off on poking around little girls’ vital organs?” Jaskier supplies helpfully.

Maybe the chatterbox Cat witcher isn’t so bad after all.

“Cut the bullshit, Stregobor,” Geralt growls. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

The wizard adopts the expression of someone who is about to launch into a monologue. Yennefer does hate monologues. Wyverns never go off on long tangents about their evil plans; they just roar and eat people. “When I look at witchers, all I see is wasted potential. Look at you all. Stronger and faster than any mortal man could ever dream to be, the perfect weapons. Yet you hide in your hovels in the mountains and waste your time saving peasants from drowners—”

“Oh, I get it,” Jaskier says. “You’re kidnapping witchers to study our mutations so you can make more witchers, right?”

Stregobor blinks. “I—”

“Probably have the backing of some king who’s going to pay you a small fortune to churn out supersoldiers, right? I would think Calanthe, but she really doesn’t like mages. Foltest? No, he’s too busy with familial matters to scheme. Oh, how about Vizimir? This seems like the kind of bullshit Vizimir would pull.”

“It’s not going to work,” Geralt says in a voice of such confidence that every eye in the room turns to him. “You can’t just make more witchers. That knowledge is lost forever.”

“We’ll see.” Stregobor sniffs haughtily.

Geralt’s lip curls. “You think you’re the first power-hungry mage to try to regain that knowledge? You’re not half as original as you think you are, Stregobor.”

“Yeah, you may have peaked with the whole villainy thing when you started dissecting babies,” Jaskier chimes in. “Hard to top that.”

“And that’s why witchers are a dying breed,” Stregobor says. “Your hubris.”

Jaskier screws up his face in mock concentration. “No, pretty sure that’s all the monsters we’re hired to kill. And the fact that humans keep banding together to murder us.”

Stregobor pins him with a cold look. Despite herself, Yennefer shivers. “I’ve already taken samples from four witchers. A Bear, a Manticore, a Viper, and a Crane.”

“And now you’re rounding out your collection with a Wolf, a Cat, and a Griffin.” Yennefer doesn’t bother asking if the previous subjects are still alive.

Stregobor nods. “Intelligent and beautiful.”

Yennefer bares her teeth at him.

He chuckles. “The three of you are going to help me make history.”

“We’re not going to help you do shit, Stregobor,” Geralt snarls.

“It’s charmingly naive that you think you’re going to have a choice,” Stregobor says. “The experiments begin in earnest tomorrow now that the witcheress has joined us. You should try to get some rest.”

With that, he steps out of the cell and lets the door slam behind him.

***

It would be preferable if Yennefer remembered the tests. She’s sure they’re not pleasant— nothing with Stregobor ever is— but at least she would be present in her own body during them. Instead, she comes back to herself sitting in the cell, feeling slightly woozy and with several puncture marks in her arms.

“You back with us, Yennefer?” Jaskier’s voice is far too gentle.

“What the fuck happned?” Yennefer doesn’t remember anything after being fed a pathetic breakfast of porridge by a vacant-eyed serving girl. Less pleasant than the breakfast was listening to Jaskier rhapsodize about a feast he’d attended in Vizima last month at length.

“It happens every day right after breakfast,” Geralt says. “One of us gets drugged and taken away.”

Yennefer bristles. “And you didn’t think to warn me?”

“It’s worse if you don’t eat it, trust me,” Jaskier says. “I tried on my second day here, and Stregobor put a spell on me to make me ravenous. I ate so much food, I’m pretty sure I lost at least a day or two.”

Yennefer’s hands ball into useless fists. “How long was I gone?”

“A couple of hours,” Geralt says.

Hours completely gone. Yennefer remembers nothing. Anything could have been done to her, and she would have had no idea.

Yennefer hates feeling powerless. Since the day she was thrown at Coën’s feet and given the choice— be dropped off in the nearest town or taken to Kaer Seren to become a witcher— she’s sworn to herself that she would never be that terrified little girl cowering in a pigsty again. And in the forty years since she underwent the Trials, she’s put that girl behind her. But for hours, Stregobor left her as helpless as she’s ever been. She’s going to kill him for it.

“You doing okay over there, White Wolf?” Jaskier calls.

“Hm.” Geralt is sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed, deep in meditation. Or, he would be deep in meditation, if Jaskier let him. “Thought you were going to stop talking to me now that you have a more interesting conversational partner.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous, darling.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes at the Wolf. “A boy never forgets his first cellmate.”

“I refuse to believe this is the first time you’ve been in a cell.”

Jaskier throws back his head and laughs at that, much more enthusiastically than the joke called for. Yennefer would be amused by how blatantly he wants to fuck the Wolf witcher, if she didn’t have to have a close-up view of all the flirting.

Geralt opens his eyes to look at Yennefer. His eyes are a darker yellow than Yennefer and Jaskier’s, almost gold. Most witchers can pass for humans until you see the eyes. When she pulls up her hood and tucks her medallion away, Yennefer is overlooked by most people. In contrast, Geralt seems to radiate pure witcher. No one who looks at him would see anything but a predator. Even chained to a wall, he radiates power. It’s quite appealing, and Yennefer can almost see why Jaskier is making an utter fool of himself over the man.

“You alright?” he asks Yennefer.

“Well, all my organs seem to be where they’re supposed to be,” she says. “So it could be worse.”

“That’s a low bar for being ‘alright.’”

“I’m locked in an underground cell with no hope of escape.” Yennefer closes her eyes and leans her head back against the wall. “The bar was already pretty fucking low.”

***

The next day, they take Jaskier. It happens right after breakfast; no sooner have they finished their bland porridge than all the personality seems to drain from Jaskier’s face. He’s in the middle of telling a story about a zeugl hunt that he seems to think is the height of comedy when he stops talking abruptly and his expression goes vacant. He stares at a spot on the ground in front of him, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Jaskier?” For two days now, Yennefer has wanted nothing more than for Jaskier to stop talking, but now that he’s still and silent, it’s unnerving. She doesn’t know the Cat witcher well, but she can already tell that there aren’t many things that cause him to go quiet. Yennefer tries not to picture Jaskier’s empty expression on her own face. The Cat witcher is terribly vulnerable right now, more vulnerable than a witcher should ever be.

Two men come in to collect Jaskier not long after. They’re as empty-eyed as the serving girl who brings them their food. Geralt starts to struggle against his bonds as Jaskier is dragged out of the room. As soon as the door closes behind Jaskier and his captors, the Wolf witcher seems to go limp. Curious. Yennefer wonders if maybe the attraction there isn’t as one-sided as it appears.

“They brought me back,” she reminds him. “That means they’ll probably bring him back too.”

Geralt doesn’t look away from the door until they bring Jaskier back hours later, smelling of blood and staggering between the two men dragging him, but seemingly unharmed. It takes him another hour before the drugs seem to leave his system and he finally looks at Yennefer with comprehension.

“Fuck,” he croaks and doubles over to throw up.

***

“You ever wonder what life would have been like if you hadn’t been a witcher?” Jaskier asks Yennefer the next day. Stregobor’s men came to drag Geralt away hours ago.

“No,” Yennefer says.

“Oh come on, you must wonder _sometimes._ Everyone does.”

“I don’t particularly see the point in fantasizing about what would have been a shit life.”

“What would have been so shitty about it?”

Yennefer knows he won’t let it go until she gives him something. It doesn’t even matter; none of them will survive to remember this conversation. “My father was part-elf. I never knew him, he died when I was a baby. But his blood left me with a bent back and a crooked jaw. There were certain things that I just couldn’t do, things you need to be able to do when you live on a farm. My stepfather made it clear that he never saw me as anything but a burden. I lived in the pigsty, only got table scraps to eat.

“When I was fourteen, a werewolf started carrying off our pigs in the night, so my family hired a witcher. He cured the werewolf instead of killing him, so my stepfather refused to pay him in coin. Instead, he offered me as payment. I think it was supposed to be more of an insult than a reward, so when the witcher actually wanted to take me away, my stepfather charged him four marks.”

Jaskier’s face is a mask of disgust. “He _bought_ you?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Yennefer says. “Coën took one look at me and knew I’d be dead within the year if I stayed where I was. If the elements or a werewolf didn’t get me, it would be starvation or some disease I picked up from the pigs. He offered me a choice. He would drop me off at the nearest town and try to find me a job, or he would take me to Kaer Seren to be trained as a witcher.”

“And your stepfather?”

“The first year I was on the Path, I went back to Vengerberg to kill him. Turns out he’d died of dysentery the year before. Fucker couldn’t even stay alive long enough for me to get my revenge.”

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

“He doesn’t matter,” Yennefer says. “Coën, the witcher who saved me, is my family in all the ways that matter. We’re the only Griffins left. Soon, it will just be him and he’ll never know what happened to me.”

That shouldn’t bother her. Being a witcher means loss. But the thought of Coën mourning her sends a surge of grief through her. She clears her throat and forces herself not to think about it. “What about you, Cat? What would you have been if you weren’t a witcher?”

“Well, I dreamed of being a traveling bard,” he says, which is the least surprising thing he’s ever said. “But in reality, I would have grown up to be the Earl de Lettenhove and would have hated every minute of it.”

“You were a noble?” Yennefer arches an eyebrow. Noble sons hardly ever become witchers.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove at your service.”

“That’s far too many names for one person.”

“Hence why I go by Jaskier.”

“What happened?”

“My father pissed off the king and he sent an assassin to kill my entire family. That assassin turned out to be a witcher.”

“Fuck.”

“We were having a dinner party. I forget what the occasion was, but there were some neighboring nobles present. I don’t know if they had made the king angry as well, or they were just collateral damage. The witcher showed up and tore through everyone in that room in seconds. My family, our guests, the guards, the servants. Everyone but me. I was six. When he was killing my mother, I picked up a table knife and tried to defend her. Didn’t do a damn thing, but I guess he saw something in me, because he took me instead of killing me.”

Yennefer isn’t sure what to say. This is probably the part where she’s supposed to offer comfort, but she’s never been good at that. “And the witcher?”

“Still alive. One of the few of us that are. I can’t kill him myself— the Cat school doesn’t have many rules, but they’re pretty clear on that one— but if I saw a wyvern flying at him, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help.”

“Well, if we ever get out of here, there aren’t any rules about Griffins killing Cats.”

Jaskier really does have a nice smile, she notices. “I think there are, actually.”

“I was never very good at following rules.”

Jaskier howls with laughter at that and Yennefer wonders what things would have been like had they met under different circumstances. Maybe they would have been friends.

***

The days continue in much the same way, with either Yennefer, Geralt, or Jaskier going into a fugue state after breakfast and vanishing for hours. When they aren’t being drugged and experimented on, all there really is to do is talk. After several days, Yennefer is ready to admit to herself that Jaskier and Geralt’s company makes this ordeal more bearable than it otherwise would be. Jaskier still talks too much and is a ridiculous flirt, but he’s entertaining. Geralt has a surprisingly delightful dry sense of humor. Despite herself, Yennefer is beginning to like them.

And then one day, Jaskier and Geralt are both taken after breakfast and are gone for hours. It’s easy to lose track of time when locked in an underground cell, but Yennefer is aware of every too-silent minute that ticks by.

When they return, they’ve both been beaten to hell. Jaskier’s nose is bleeding and he’s sporting an ugly burn on his torso. Geralt’s shoulder looks like it’s been dislocated; Yennefer winces in sympathy when his arms are wrenched over his head to be shackled to the wall.

“What did he do to them?” Yennefer demands of Stregobor’s blank-eyed minions, but the men don't reply as they leave the cell. Yennefer is left alone with her silent companions. It’s a relief when Geralt finally lets out a low moan of pain.

“Fuck,” he growls. When his eyes fall on Jaskier, he freezes. “What the fuck happened?”

“They took both of you,” Yennefer says. “I think they may have made you fight each other.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Jaskier’s shoulder.”

Right on the meaty part where Jaskier’s neck meets his shoulder, there’s a bite mark that tore right through his frilly chemise to the skin. It’s the perfect imprint of a human mouth, bruised and bloody.

“Your teeth are bloody,” Yennefer tells Geralt.

Geralt runs his tongue over his teeth, his face twisting with anguish. “Fuck,” he says again.

“You’re both okay.” Yennefer tries to sound soothing. She’s not sure how effective it is, but she tries. “Neither of you are hurt that badly.”

“I could have killed him,” Geralt says hoarsely.

“And he could have killed you.” But even as she says it, she knows it’s not true. She doesn’t know what kind of mutagens the Wolf school gives their witchers, but she doesn’t think she or Jaskier would stand a chance against Geralt.

“Stregobor still needs us,” she reminds Geralt, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off of Jaskier. “He’s not going to let us die yet.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but when Jaskier finally comes back to himself, grumbling, “what the ever-loving fuck happened to my chemise?” the look of relief on his face says it all. It’s that moment that Yennefer decides she’s going to get the three of them out of this. She doesn’t know how she’s going to do it, but she won’t let them die here.

***

The next day, they take Yennefer and Jaskier. When she wakes up, it’s to Jaskier saying her name over and over again in a broken voice. She looks up to see that his injuries from the day before are gone, replaced by new ones, like the scratch marks across his face and a split lip. As for Yennefer, she feels like shit. It hurts to breathe; at least one of her ribs is broken. Her head is killing her.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaskier whispers. He’s missing a tooth. “Gods, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the brick wall behind her.

Geralt makes a soft, pained noise. “Don’t fall asleep, Yenn. You have a head wound.”

No one has ever called her Yenn before. Her brothers at Kaer Seren used to call her Yenna. For a second, Yennefer is violently homesick. Despite Geralt and Jaskier’s best efforts, she drifts off to sleep, dreaming of home.

***

The days continue in much the same way. Each day, two of them are taken and come back with clear signs of having been in a battle. Yennefer assumes that Stregobor is trying to determine which of their mutations are most effective, but the mage isn’t around to ask. They always come back with fresh wounds, the wounds from the previous day gone. Yennefer has a high pain tolerance— all witchers do— but she’s tired of constantly hurting. It reminds her of the ever-present pain in her back and jaw before the Trials.

And then one day, something changes. Yennefer comes back to herself pinned to the ground with Geralt’s forearm pressed against her throat. They’re in a sunlit room, with stained glass windows dappling Geralt’s white hair with green, pink, and blue. It would almost be beautiful, if he didn’t have that terrible blankness to his face as he chokes the life out of her.

“That’s enough, Butcher,” Stregobor says and Geralt sits back, releasing Yennefer.

Yennefer doesn’t move, schooling her face into what she hopes is an expression of drugged indifference.

Stregobor comes into her line of sight, looking as smug as ever. “Not so lovely these days, witcheress.”

Yennefer thinks about launching herself at him. He clearly has no idea that she’s no longer under the effect of the drugs. But Geralt is standing over her, still under the mage's control. She has no doubt that Stregobor would use him as a shield and the thought of hurting the other witcher makes her ache in a way she doesn’t want to examine so closely. Somehow, the Wolf witcher is the strongest one in the room, but also the most vulnerable.

“Up, girl,” Stregobor says and Yennefer burns with the desire to kill him. “You have one good foot. You should be able to walk.”

It’s only then that Yennefer realizes her left leg is pretty much crushed from the knee down. Every step is excruciating, but she forces herself to focus as she and Geralt are led back down to their cell. They’re being kept in an opulent mansion, probably still in Gildorf. It’s all stained glass windows, marble walls, and plush carpeting. She takes note of every window, every door, every possible weapon. She doesn’t even think about running, not when it would mean leaving Geralt and Jaskier behind.

The Yennefer of a couple of weeks ago wouldn’t have hesitated to save herself.

She knows that their cell is probably monitored, so she doesn’t let the fact that she’s no longer drugged show once they’re back in their cell, not even as she listens to Jaskier’s horror over their injuries. She waits until well after Geralt comes back to himself before she looks up at them. They both look so terribly hopeless that she wants to tell them. She wants to give them hope.

Instead, she holds onto that little glow in her chest, the first one she’s had in weeks.

***

It doesn’t happen every time they take Yennefer, but it happens often enough that she’s gotten used to coming back to herself in the middle of a battle or on the way back to her cell. Once, she comes back with a dagger arcing towards Jaskier’s throat and just has time to wonder if she’s going to have to hesitate and give herself away before Stregobor shouts at her to stop. Jaskier stares up at her with empty eyes— sometimes, Yennefer finds herself wondering what color his eyes were before the Trials— completely unaware of how close he just came to dying. She can feel his slow, steady heartbeat under her palm.

Walking back to her cell without killing Stregobor is nearly impossible that time.

Worse are the days that Yennefer comes back to herself strapped to a table, having to lie perfectly still while Stregobor draws her blood and examines her. Her skin crawls every time she thinks about it, so she doesn’t.

She knows it’s only a matter of time until the mage takes his experiments too far and kills one of them, just like he’s killed four witchers before them. She knows she has to figure out a way to get all three of them to safety before then. She’s desperate to figure out a way to confide in Geralt and Jaskier, but it’s too risky. So she keeps her mouth closed and her eyes open and waits for the opportunity to arise.

***

She wakes up to the smell of blood, thick and coppery in the air, and instantly knows that something is wrong. Slowly, careful not to draw attention to herself, she turns her head. She’s strapped to a table in the ballroom with the stained glass windows where she’s fought Geralt and Jaskier so many times. On the table next to hers, Jaskier is strapped down, with Geralt on the other side of him. Geralt’s chest glistens with blood as Stregobor draws a line across it with a scalpel. It’s a shallow cut, but enough to make Yennefer grimace.

Today is the day, she realizes with a sudden surge of horror. Today is the day that Stregobor’s experiments come to an end.

“You’re awake, witcheress.” Stregobor doesn’t turn to look at her. “You know, I hypothesize that Griffin mutagens have more magic in them than the other schools, which is why the drugs didn’t affect you as strongly.”

“You knew.” Her voice is hoarse.

“I suspected. I find it charming that you wouldn’t abandon your companions. I suppose your gentle womanly nature wins out over the witcher mutations.”

“Come closer. I’ll show you my gentle womanly nature.”

Stregobor chuckles. “You’ll need to wait your turn, my dear. The Butcher goes first.”

“What are you doing to him?” When the mage doesn't answer, Yennefer jerks at the cuffs around her wrists. “Why don’t you come cut me up instead? I know I’m a great deal older than the little girls you usually dissect, but I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

“No,” Geralt says and for the first time, she realizes that he isn’t drugged.

Stregobor turns in time to see the horror on Yennefer’s face. He smiles. “I’ve found that for this experiment, it’s best for the subjects to know what’s happening. After all, the best way to figure out how to create a witcher is to see what happens when a witcher dies.”

Geralt turns to look at Yennefer, his brow slick with sweat. “You could have escaped,” he says. “You could have gotten out of here.”

Something inside Yennefer twists. “Not without you and Jaskier.”

He closes his eyes.

“Touching,” Stregobor says.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Yennefer snaps, not looking away from Geralt.

On the other side of Geralt, she hears a tremulous, “Geralt?”

“It’s okay, Jask,” Geralt rasps.

It’s not okay. None of this is okay. Yennefer watches as Stregobor cuts Geralt again and she realizes that he’s going to slowly let the Wolf witcher bleed to death, watching as it happens and taking notes. And he’s going to make her and Jaskier watch as well.

“You should really kill me first,” Jaskier says. “I’m going to annoy the shit out of you otherwise. It’s a specialty of mine. My instructors always used to say that I was one of those yappy little dogs that never stops—”

Stregobor waves his hand and Jaskier falls abruptly silent. Yennefer rears up off the table as far as she can go, ready to tear the mage apart, until she sees that Jaskier’s mouth is opening and closing silently. Not dead, just silenced.

“Come now, witcheress,” Stregobor says. “You can’t tell me that you’ve never wanted to do that before.”

Jaskier’s eyes are frantic as he watches Geralt bleed.

“A fascinating specimen, the Butcher.” Stregobor eyes Geralt like he’s a particularly interesting painting. “Did you know they put him through the Trial of the Grasses twice? Twice the mutagens, but he still bleeds like any other man.”

“And so will you.” Yennefer twists harder at the manacles.

Stregobor has his back turned to her, all his focus on Geralt. “It’s truly interesting to see the difference between the three of you. The Butcher, with double the mutagens. The Cat, with his school’s faulty mutagens. And you, witcheress, a woman. An aberration, even among witchers.”

There’s a pop as Yennefer’s right thumb dislocates. Slowly, she slides her hand from the manacle.

“I’ve heard the Cat school has several female witchers as well. I would be interested to get my hands on one of them. I’ll have all my tests completed by then, so it would be purely out of professional curiosity.”

Jaskier is carefully not looking at Yennefer. She’s not sure if he notices what she’s doing.

Predictably, Stregobor is still talking. “It’s time for the old breed of witchers to come to an end. For too long…”

Yennefer stops listening. With a twist of her hand, she dislocates her left thumb and sits up. Her ankles are chained as well— there’s nothing she can easily do about that without making too much noise— but her hands are free and that’s all that matters.

“Don’t you agree, witcheress?” Stregobor turns. For the rest of her days, Yennefer will savor the look of shock on his face when he sees Yennefer sitting up.

“For the last fucking time,” Yennefer says. “I’m a _witcher._ ”

She casts Igni.

Stregobor staggers back with a squeal, letting the scalpel fall to the ground as the front of his robes burst into flames. Yennefer casts Aard to break the shackles binding her ankles and leaps to her feet. She would do anything for her sword, but the fallen scalpel will have to do. She seizes it and advances on Stregobor. The mage tries to cast a curse and Yennefer deflects it with Quen, twirling the scalpel in her hand as she advances on him.

“Wait,” Stregobor says. “You must understand, sacrifices need to be made sometimes.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “But I don’t consider this a sacrifice.”

She hurls the scalpel. Her aim isn’t as accurate as it would be if it were one of her throwing stars, but it does the trick, embedding itself in the side of Stregobor’s throat as he turns to flee. An arc of blood hits the stained glass window behind him. The mage crumbles to the ground, choking on his own blood.

“You really should have killed me first,” Yennefer tells him as the light leaves his eyes.

“Damn,” an all-too-familiar voice says behind her. “You know, I would say that this is the most aroused I’ve ever been, but there was this one time—”

“Silencing spell didn’t last.” That’s Geralt, hoarse but blessedly alive.

“Our luck couldn’t be that good.” Yennefer turns to find them both looking at her with starry-eyed expressions that are frankly embarrassing on witchers of their caliber. She’s not Jaskier, so she doesn’t preen. Outwardly.

She goes to Geralt first, and is relieved to see that the cuts left by the blade are shallow. Stregobor truly meant to draw his death out. When he’s able to sit up, he leans his head against her, murmuring his thanks. It’s the first time they’ve touched each other outside of combat and she lets herself enjoy the warmth of him for just a moment. He’s as solid as she imagined and she has the childish impulse to stand here and hold him.

“If we’re having a group hug, I’d rather like to get in on it, if you don’t mind,” Jaskier says.

“Should we leave him here?” Yennefer asks and Geralt huffs a laugh against her.

“I would break out,” Jaskier informs her as she turns to get him out of his shackles. “And I would find you and I would be absolutely—”

“Annoying. Well aware.”

Jaskier smiles, but as soon as he’s free, he rushes to Geralt’s side. “Fuck, Geralt, you’re bleeding.”

Geralt shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

Jaskier makes a sound of distress and runs his hand down Geralt’s chest. “This is the first time I’ve seen you shirtless and I can’t even enjoy it. It’s truly unfair.”

“Gods, do you two ever stop flirting?” Yennefer demands.

Both turn to her with looks of utmost innocence.

“Flirting, Yenn?” Jaskier says. “Oh, darling, you haven’t even begun to see me flirt yet.”

“And I don’t have the time right now.” She gives him a hard look. “We should check on the servants. I don’t think they were here willingly.”

“And I need to find my horse,” Geralt says.

“And we all need baths.” Jaskier looks down at himself with a sad sigh. “Do you think this doublet can be saved?”

“No,” Geralt and Yennefer say at the same time.

***

Jaskier apparently has a room at the Passiflora whenever he needs one— payment for dealing with a katakan preying on the whores a decade ago— so after they make sure the servants are alright and locate Geralt’s horse, a mare tragically named Roach, they retreat there. It’s quite a nice room too, with an enormous bed and a fireplace. Jaskier tends to Geralt’s wounds, fussing gently over them, while Yennefer goes to take a bath. When she returns, she finds that Jaskier has abandoned his nurse duties and instead has his tongue jammed down Geralt’s throat.

“You two couldn’t wait until you don’t smell like you’ve been locked in a dungeon for a month?” she demands.

Jaskier looks up, cheeks flushed and hair rumpled. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You clearly can’t smell yourself.”

“Yennefer?” Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Are you jealous?”

She huffs. “Hardly.”

Jaskier rises to his feet and closes the distance between them and cups her cheeks in his hands. “You saved us. I’m never going to forget that. You’re incredible, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

If Yennefer’s heart speeds up at that, it’s nothing to do with the feeling of his callused hands on her face or the warmth of his body. “That’s very sweet, Jaskier. But you’re not going to kiss me until you’ve had a bath.”

“You break my heart.” He gasps dramatically. “But I think baths are more fun with company, don’t you?” He looks back over his shoulder at Geralt, but takes Yennefer’s hand.

“Hm,” is all Geralt says, but he’s smiling as he rises to his feet.

They’re in the bath for a long time and when Yennefer finally does let Jaskier kiss her, it’s everything she didn’t know she was waiting for.

***

They spend three days at Jaskier’s rooms in the Passiflora, until the whores stop even trying to ask if they need anything. Yennefer spends those three days learning every inch of the Cat and Wolf witchers’ bodies. Jaskier is an enthusiastic and tireless lover, while Geralt is slower and more thoughtful, but no less passionate. By the end of the three days, when the madame of the Passiflora knocks on the door to have a pointed conversation with Jaskier, Yennefer is as tired as if she just took on a flock of wyverns by herself.

“I guess it’s time for us all to move on?” she asks as Jaskier slips back into bed between her and Geralt. Unsurprisingly, the Cat always needs to be the center of attention.

Jaskier presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Yes, it seems we’re having too much sex for a brothel, which may be my proudest achievement to date.”

Geralt snorts and fondly nuzzles into Jaskier’s hair.

“Where will we go next?” Jaskier asks. “I’m thinking the coast. Winters on the sea are beautiful.”

“We?” Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him.

“Well, of course. The three of us make a great team! Look at what we did to Stregobor.”

“If I remember correctly, I was the one who killed Stregobor.”

“And Geralt and I were there for moral support. I’m always happy to provide support.” He leers at her breasts.

“That made absolutely no sense.” She can feel a smile curling the corners of her lips. She fights it and loses.

“I should head to Kaer Morhen soon if I want to make it before winter,” Geralt says. “You two are welcome to join me for the winter.”

“Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier’s eyes brighten. “I’ve heard stories about it. It’s supposed to be magnificent.”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s a cold, drafty ruin in the mountains, but it’s home.”

“Good thing I have two strapping witchers to warm me up.” Jaskier snuggles closer to Geralt. Both of them turn their slit-pupiled gazes on Yennefer.

Yennefer hesitates. “I’ve been thinking I should track down Coën. It’s been two or three years since I’ve seen him. I should rectify that.”

“Coën?” Geralt frowns.

“The only other Griffin witcher left. He’s one of my dearest friends.”

“I know Coën,” Geralt says. “He’s friends with my brother, Eskel. He’s come to Kaer Morhen most winters ever since Kaer Seren fell. He’ll probably be there this year.”

Jaskier’s gaze turns distinctly puppy dog-ish.

Yennefer sighs. “Well, I suppose I’ll come to Kaer Morhen then. It seems I’m stuck with the two of you.”

“Oh, please.” Jaskier leans over to kiss her. “You know you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And to her surprise, she realizes he’s right.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer, Jaskier, and Geralt take a bath and Jaskier and Geralt find a way to thank Yennefer properly for saving their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who read, commented on, and left kudos on the first chapter. I'm so happy so many of you enjoyed Witcher!Yenn.
> 
> This is the smutty second chapter that I promised. This is pretty much pure porn, so if that's not your thing, feel free to skip! This is the bath sex that I skipped over in the first chapter, right after they escape from Stregobor's dungeons. Are we ignoring the fact that after a month in captivity, they would probably be in bad shape? Yes. Are we ignoring the fact that refractory periods exist? Also yes. Because hand wavy witcher mutations.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The bathtub in the Passiflora is sized to comfortably fit six people. Yennefer is very careful not to think about the kind of things that have probably happened in it when she slips into the steaming hot water. Her shoulders and arms still ache after a month of being shackled to a wall and she sinks to submerge everything below her chin. With the water covering her ears, the world is pleasantly muffled and calm.

Until Jaskier lets out a whoop and springs into the tub next to her, sending a wave over her face. “Gods, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. The entire time I was in that dungeon, I could smell myself. I would prefer the torture, if I’m being hon—”

Yennefer pops a foot out of the water, plants it on the top of his head, and shoves him under the surface. There’s more splashing as he flails and when he emerges, spluttering, he looks as indignant as a tabby cat that fell into the tub.

“Oh, you minx,” he says. “You’re going to regret that.”

Yennefer smirks. “Do your worst, Cat.”

He pounces, bringing her under the water with him. The grapple for dominance for a moment. When they emerge, Yennefer is straddling Jaskier’s hips. From the length of his erection pressed against the back of her thigh, he doesn’t seem to mind this state of affairs. He’s startlingly pretty, with broad shoulders and a strong chest covered in hair. Yennefer looks her fill, letting her gaze rove over pale skin, dark hair, and pink nipples. She reaches out and combs her fingers through the fuzz of chest hair, lips curling as Jaskier’s pupils go wide with want.

Behind them, Geralt clears his throat. “Are you two done splashing around so I can get in?”

Guiltily, Yennefer and Jaskier look up and find the Wolf witcher standing at the edge of the bathtub, watching them with an arched eyebrow. Jaskier lets out a hiss of breath and Yennefer can’t help but relate. She knew Geralt was a beautiful man— even after being locked in a dungeon for a month, he’s stunning— but seeing him naked is better than any of Yennefer’s wildest imaginations. He looks like he was carved from marble.

Realizing that she’s staring like a schoolgirl witnessing her first naked man, Yennefer looks away. “No one’s stopping you.”

Jaskier flicks some water at Geralt. “Unless you’re afraid of getting that pretty hair wet.”

“Hm.” Yennefer can hear the amusement in that hum as Geralt slips into the water with a low groan that makes her think of all the other situations she could hear that groan in.

She disentangles herself from Jaskier, who flashes an exaggerated pout.

“I told you, you need a bath before you can kiss me,” she tells him.

“Cruel woman. You’re going to leave me a brokenhearted man.” But Jaskier goes to retrieve a bar of perfumed soap from the side of the tub. “Oh, Geralt, you’re injured. Allow me.”

Geralt, whose wounds from earlier in the day are already starting to heal, looks amused, but nods his assent. Yennefer sits back against the side of the tub and watches as Jaskier soaps up a cloth and starts to rub it over Geralt’s chest and shoulders. The two men only have eyes for each other, but Yennefer can’t find it in her to be jealous. They look lovely together.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “What kind of mutagens do they have at Kaer Morhen? I’ve never seen this many abs. Well, not on one person, at least.”

“It’s the dehydration,” Geralt says dryly.

Jaskier sighs sadly and runs a hand over Geralt’s abs. “There’s a tavern right across the street. Their meat pies are divine.”

“Tomorrow.” Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hand and brings it to his lips. “We’ll be busy tonight.”

“We will be, if the two of you ever stop bathing each other,” Yennefer says acidly.

Jaskier laughs. “Is someone feeling impatient?”

“Yes. Geralt is as squeaky clean as he’s ever going to be.”

“You heard her.” Geralt takes the cloth from Jaskier’s hand. “It’s your turn.”

Yennefer watches hungrily as Geralt helps Jaskier bathe. The two men kiss and nuzzle at each other, both already hard. Yennefer is starting to wonder if she’s going to have to watch their foreplay all night when Geralt puts the cloth aside and they both turn to her, expressions full of want.

“Can I kiss you yet, Yennefer?” Jaskier moves slowly towards her. His cheeks are flushed from the hot water and his eyes are bright with lust and eagerness.

Yennefer doesn’t move, affecting an air of nonchalance, like she’s not even a bit phased by the sight of all Jaskier’s loveliness. “I suppose.”

His lips curl into a smile and she gets the sense that he doesn’t buy her act for a moment. He cups her face in his hands, callused thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Yennefer barely manages to suppress a shiver of desire as the Cat witcher bends and captures her mouth with his. He’s a good kisser, playful and sweet, and Yennefer finds herself leaning against him. She wraps her legs around his waist, letting him lift her from her seat. They cross the bathtub and the next thing she knows, she’s being lowered into Geralt’s lap. Large, strong hands settle on her waist and Geralt’s breath tickles the side of her neck.

“Have we mentioned how grateful we are for what you did, Yennefer?” Jaskier murmurs.

“You have.” Yennefer’s mouth is dry. She’s surrounded by the warmth of the water and their bodies and the scent of the perfumed soap they were using. “But I think action is more effective than words for showing gratitude, don’t you?”

“Hm.” Jaskier does a passable imitation of Geralt’s grunts. “She makes a compelling point, Geralt. What do you think?”

“I’m convinced.” Yennefer can feel Geralt’s voice rumbling in his chest and she presses back against the wall of muscle that is the Wolf witcher.

“Excellent.” Jaskier’s eyes fall to Yennefer’s breasts and his tongue darts over his lower lip. Yennefer arches her back in silent invitation. That’s all the encouragement Jaskier needs. His mouth catches her nipple, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin, and Yennefer gasps. Jaskier lavishes attention on her breasts, taking his time exploring her with his mouth and hands.

“Cat,” she finally growls. “There are more interesting things you could be doing with your mouth.”

“Oh?” With a wicked grin, he presses a chaste kiss against her collarbone.

She snarls at him and he laughs that merry laugh that she’s secretly beginning to realize she’ll never tire of hearing.

Jaskier kneels down in the water, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his shoulders. When he lowers his face between her legs, he lets his breath tickle her damp skin. Yennefer is about to snap at him again, until she feels a tiny lick against her clit. It’s a small thing, but it’s all it takes to send a wave of pleasure through her. As Jaskier begins to lick in earnest, Yennefer is surprised by the high-pitched, breathy noise she makes. Because fuck, the Cat witcher is _good_ with his mouth. He slips a finger inside her just as Geralt begins to gently caress her nipples. She cries out, cresting into an orgasm almost embarrassingly fast.

Behind her, Geralt groans. He’s painfully hard against her. Taking pity on him, she grinds her ass back into his cock and turns her face to kiss him. He’s a different kind of kisser than Jaskier— slower and more thorough, but no less fantastic. Between Jaskier, who hasn’t let up his attention on her clit and cunt, and Geralt toying with her nipples and kissing her, Yennefer feels overwhelmed with sensation. It’s almost too much, but it’s so fucking good.

Geralt slips a hand between her legs, his fingers joining Jaskier’s. They move in tandem, Jaskier rubbing his thumb along her clit in time with his thumb, while Geralt slips a finger inside her, then another. Jaskier’s fingers are long and slender, almost delicate, while Geralt’s are thicker and stronger. Both of their hands are incredible and Yennefer finds herself telling them that, loudly and at length. She’s never been one to babble during sex, but as she crests into her second orgasm, she forgets all about her dignity.

“One of you needs to fuck me,” she says, words bitten off in a moan as Geralt nips at her earlobe. “Now.”

“Well, if you insist.” Jasker stands, wrapping her legs around his waist. Yennefer reaches back to seize a handful of Geralt’s hair as Jaskier sinks into her. The Cat witcher’s mouth drops open and his head tilts back in pleasure. Impatient, Yennefer jerks her hips, causing both men to moan. With a breathless little laugh, Jaskier starts to fuck her in earnest. He feels incredible inside her, his cock hitting her right in _that_ spot.

“Don’t stop,” she tells him, trying to make it sound like an order, but it comes out a plea.

His smile is downright wolfish as he bends to kiss her. She can taste herself on his tongue. “Gods, Yennefer, you’re incredible,” he whispers. “Magnificent. I wish you could see yourself right now.”

Ridiculously, she can feel herself getting flustered. “Don’t you ever know when to stop talking, Cat?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

She silences him with another kiss, moaning into his mouth as he brings her to orgasm again. Jaskier’s hips stutter, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, and a moment later, he reaches his own peak. Yennefer sags against Geralt, feeling boneless. When she looks up at Jaskier, he’s watching her with an incredibly smug look. Behind her, Geralt shifts, his cock poking her in the cleft of her ass. She feels a little shiver at the promise. Geralt is impossibly lovely and she can’t wait to have him inside of her. But first…

She turns and kisses him, deep and slow. When they pull away, she murmurs, “I want to watch you fuck Jaskier.”

Jaskier lets out a little whimper of want and Geralt swallows.

“Bedroom,” is all he says.

Yennefer would like to say that they make the journey from the bath to their bedroom with the grace and dignity befitting of witchers. In reality, they stumble there in a tangle of limbs, nearly knocking over two exasperated-looking whores on their way. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Geralt picks Jaskier up and throws him down on the bed. The Cat witcher goes willingly. Lying on his back, it’s very apparent that he’s already growing hard again. Yennefer settles at the foot of the bed and watches as Geralt prowls towards Jaskier, looking every bit the predator. She can’t even judge Jaskier for the way he squirms in anticipation.

There’s a little jar of oil on the bedside table, but Geralt doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he climbs on the bed and takes Jaskier’s cock in his mouth without preamble, letting out a little hum of pleasure. Jaskier whimpers and moans as Geralt begins to suck. Yennefer admires the way the muscles in Geralt’s back flex as he moves and the way his cheeks hollow out while he sucks. She reaches out and strokes a hand over the lovely globe of his ass, smiling when he shivers at her touch.

Inspired by the little shiver, Yennefer reaches over to grab the jar of oil. Jaskier nuzzles at her breasts when she leans over him, but she swats him away. She has a task in mind and she’s not going to let herself get distracted. Oiling up her fingers, she reaches to run one digit along the cleft of Geralt’s ass. She pauses, a question. He presses back against her hand, which is answer enough for her, so she slips one finger inside of him. It’s only her pinky finger, but it’s enough to make Geralt groan around Jaskeir’s cock.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier gasps. “Yennefer, whatever you’re doing to him, keep doing it.”

Yennefer circles the finger lazily inside of Geralt, feeling him clench around her, and wonders if there are any straps in this brothel that she would be able to borrow later. If the Wolf witcher is reacting this way to her finger, she would love to see him taking a cock. Geralt and Jaskier are both moaning in pleasure as Geralt sucks Jaskier’s cock and Yennefer fucks Geralt with her finger. Geralt’s cock is leaking pre-cum against his belly. When Yennefer adds a second finger, he makes the most beautiful whining noise she’s ever heard.

“Do you think you could come just like this?” Yennefer asks Geralt. “Before you even get inside Jaskier?”

Her only answer is another moan. Jaskier comes with a bitten-off shout and Geralt peppers his thighs and softening cock with kisses and licks. Yennefer withdraws her fingers from Geralt’s ass, smirking when he gives her a downright offended look.

“I told you I wanted to watch you fuck our Cat,” she reminds him. “Do that, and then maybe you’ll get more fingers as a treat.”

“Yes, please, fuck me,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “Geralt, my love, please just fuck me.”

Geralt doesn’t need any encouragement. Instead, he lifts the Cat witcher up, flipping them both over so that he’s on his back with Jaskier straddling him.

“A little help?” Geralt asks Yennefer, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Yennefer slicks up her fingers and gets to work, opening Jaskier up with her fingers. His ass is just as pretty as Geralt’s, pert and smooth. He moans as she scissors her fingers gently.

“Gods, Yenn,” he says. “Your fucking hands.”

She presses a kiss to the small of his back, then dips her other hand in oil and runs it up Geralt’s shaft, slicking him up. Geralt’s hips buck at the contact. “You ready, Cat?”

“I’ve been ready, you tease.”

Yennefer laughs and sits back as Geralt sinks into Jaskier, inch by inch. Jaskier squirms, already babbling for more, but Geralt takes his time, evidently enjoying the other man’s impatience as much as Yennefer is. When he’s fully inside Jaskier, he closes his eyes, savoring the sensation, and then begins to thrust. Jaskier rides Geralt, gasping and moaning. Yennefer watches them, taking in the slide of Geralt’s prick in and out, the gyrating of Jaskier’s ass, the lovely way their bodies move together. She’s never been prone to romantic thoughts— much to the disappointment of several past lovers— but she thinks the two of them together may be one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen.

When Geralt comes with a soft, gasping groan, Jaskier rolls off of him and collapses on the bed next to him.

“Melitele’s sweet tits,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “That was incredible.”

Yennefer thought she was all fucked-out, but one look at Geralt’s cock, still half-hard and slick with oil, changes her mind. She slides on top of Geralt, straddling his hips. “Energy for one more?” she asks.

“For you?” He smiles, equal parts sweet and wolfish. “Always.”

Yennefer kisses him. She can taste herself and Jaskier on his tongue and the combination sends a shock of arousal through her. By the time she pulls away, he’s already fully hard. She lowers herself onto his cock, gasping a little at the sheer size of him. The Wolf witcher is impressive in many ways. She rides him, clenching her thighs around him and tangling her fingers in his long white hair. When she glances over at Jaskier, she sees that he’s stroking his own cock, watching them both with half-lidded eyes.

With the hand that isn’t gripping her ass, Geralt runs a thumb over her clit. He moves in time with the thrust of her hips. It doesn’t take much to make her come again, her thighs shaking as she reaches her peak. Geralt moans as she clenches around him and she rides him harder and faster. Geralt makes that same soft, choked noise as he comes, shuddering under her. Yennefer collapses on top of him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He strokes her hair back from her face in a tender gesture that causes her heart to do funny things in her chest.

They lay in silence for a long moment, the only sound Jaskier’s gasps as he brings himself to completion again. The Cat witcher scoots closer to them and Geralt loops an arm around him, dragging him against his side. Jaskier presses a kiss against Geralt’s chest, then Yennefer’s shoulder. The three of them don’t speak as they cuddle together, all of their breathing ragged. Yennefer can hear all three of their hearts beating just a bit too fast for witchers.

“We’re going to do that again, right?” Jaskier finally asks in a hoarse voice.

“Yes,” Yennefer and Geralt say in unison.

Yennefer lifts her head and surveys them. All three witchers are sweaty, sticky, and utterly sated.

“I think,” she says. “That we may need another bath.”

***

Much, much later, Yennefer wakes up with a start, expecting to find herself back in Stregobor’s dungeon. It takes her a moment to make sense of her surroundings— the soft bed and warm room instead of a cold, damp cell, the two sleeping witchers on either side of her. Jaskier is behind her, one arm thrown over her waist as he snores against the back of her neck. On her other side is Geralt, who lies on his back, chest rising and falling evenly in sleep. In the darkened room, she can just barely see the lines on his chest left by Stregobor’s scalpel. They’re healing nicely; she imagines they’ll be nothing but scars in a couple of days.

Geralt hums in his sleep and turns towards her, putting an arm around her. Being sandwiched between Jaskier and Geralt should be uncomfortable, but it’s actually quite nice. She closes her eyes, soothed by the even sounds of their breathing and the steady thump of Jaskier’s heartbeat against her back.

Her last thought before he drifts back to sleep is that she could get used to this.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I may write more in this AU sometime in the future, once I finish up some of my other series (I have too many series. It's a problem.)

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Stregobor kidnaps Yennefer, Jaskier, and Geralt with the intention of experimenting on them in order to figure out how to create more witchers. They are drugged and mind controlled while these experiments are happening. Almost all experimentation happens off-screen, with only a few brief scenes of the witchers being forced to fight, though the aftereffects are shown. Please proceed with caution if any of this may trigger you.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. I had so much fun writing this, so I would be open to writing more in this AU is people like it enough. (There also may be a smutty chapter 2 at some point, if anyone would be interested.)
> 
> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](https://ghostinthelibrarywrites.tumblr.com/) or on Discord at ghostinthelibrary#1691


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